The Watersby John McGroarty

Genre:DramaSwearwords: None.Description:Fatima doesn’t want to return to Tunis. She is striving to make a life for herself in Barcelona.

​​Fatima only had two bags. An old suitcase and a rucksack with the flags of a few European countries sewn on haphazardly. They were stuffed full of clothes. She also had a little box with knick-knacks and framed photographs and a red wooden fan sticking out. There was another canvas bag filled with tins and packets of pulses. I looked around the room she was leaving behind. The shutters were closed and the tiled floor was still a bit damp. She had just washed it and made the bed. The coverlet was turned back and the pillows fluffed up. There was an old wardrobe with a broken lock and the door swung open to reveal a mirror with a nasty crack running down the middle, as if someone had once tried to slash their image with a knife in it. Is that all there is, I asked. She nodded and tied the knot under her headscarf tighter. We went into the living room. Her former flatmate was seated at the table biting her nails. A little boy was wedged into the corner of the couch. He was playing a game on a mobile phone and seemed oblivious. I said, hola, ¿cómo va eso? I put out my hand and ruffled his hair but he didn’t look up. I smiled weakly at the flatmate. She was about thirty and had real blonde hair and a pallid blotchy complexion. The tip of her nose and her ears were bright red and her eyes watered. Fatima introduced us but she didn’t pay any attention to me. She was Ukrainian Helena had told me before. And desperate beyond description. The whole room reeked of it. The boy was around nine or ten and had no father and she had no work and absolutely nothing in this apartment or in this world wide. Nothing here and nothing there. Nothing. Nada. Fatima had only stayed so long because she was a good Muslim and felt sorry for her and the boy but the situation had become impossible. The Saturday night before she had got drunk and smashed up the kitchen at three in the morning. The police had come. That was it. Fatima moved over and hugged the girl and spoke in her ear. I saw her give her an envelope. I didn’t know where to put myself and felt a touch annoyed. I was doing this as a favour for Helena. Fatima was her friend. I later felt bad about feeling this. The annoyance. I turned and saw an old woman sitting in an armchair in the corner. She beckoned to me. She was drinking from a big can of Estrella beer and there were piles of books and empty beer cans lying around her like a trash flotsam sea in which she sat a castaway. I could hear Fatima and the Ukrainian arguing and crying and recriminating and hugging and kissing and recriminating again. The old woman had long dank sweaty hair plastered on her head and a toothless cavernous face. She was reading the Castle. Don’t get the wrong idea, she said, laughing madly, I’m not one of the peasants but I’m not from the castle either. She waved the book in the air triumphantly. I said without emotion that the peasants and the people from the castle are always the same. She stopped laughing and nodded sagely. And then cackled absurdly again. Eso dice el libro. Veo que tú eres un tipo que sabe como son las cosas en el mundo, ¿verdad? Then: you’re doing a good thing helping Fatima to move her stuff. She’s my wife’s friend. She offered me a swig of her beer. No, I said, sorry, I’m driving. She nodded. My father had a Mercedes Benz, she said, we used to go for drives in the summer, all over Catalonia, into Aragon, up into France. She looked off into the far corner of the room. He loved cars and dogs. Was a good man. The best! I smiled. We had four dogs and a wild fox after mum died. The fox used to sleep in our bed but we didn’t know it was a fox. Oh, no. It was a sneaky one. It’s true that they’re cunning. Tan listo como un zorro! It’s really true. It used to tear the hair off his legs when he was asleep. Riiiiiiippp. Grahhhh. I was beginning to feel awkward. I turned and signalled to Fatima. She made a sign that I should go down to the car. I slowly withdrew. I picked up the bags and went down the stairs. As I left I heard the old woman shout hijo de puta. I wasn’t sure if she meant me, her father, the fox, or life itself. The epithet appeared apt for any of them. I put Fatima’s bags in the boot and got in behind the wheel and waited. She came out ten minutes later and stopped at a young black woman who was sitting against a wall next to her building. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but I saw the girl press a notebook into her hand and then they hugged and she turned and walked over and got in the car. She handed me the notebook and I flicked through it. It was full of strangely drawn shapes. Diamonds and fractals and lightning bolts. She’s schizophrenic, said Fatima. She came here from Africa, on a patera. Across the waters. She has no family, nobody knows her. She was just dumped here three years ago. In the middle of the night. In Plaça Catalunya. I looked at the sketches again and handed the book back. It’s terrible, I said. It is, said Fatima. I started up the engine and drove off. Fatima was quiet. I said, we’ll go down the Diagonal, it’s a straight road. Vale, she said. After a bit, she said, you’re a writer, aren’t you? Helena told me. Sí, I said reluctantly, sometimes I write some stories. What do you write about, she asked. I don’t know. I laughed nervously. Nothing. About ….. nothing. Feelings. Some inspirations. Nothing really. Fatima nodded. There’s nothing to write about nowadays, eh? You were talking to Magdalena I saw, she said. The old woman. Well. Yeah, I suppose I was. She’s mad. She was living on the street and Katia took her in. She gets some money from the government. Not much. When she goes to a residence they don’t let her drink so she doesn’t stay. Katia doesn’t care if she drinks herself to death. She wants the money for her and the boy. She’s a writer too. She used to write really well. I’ve read a few of her stories. They’re beautiful. About her childhood. In Galicia. With her father. Full of colour and light. But she’s an alcoholic. She still tries to write but nothing makes any sense. She’s losing her mind. She writes about nothing, too. It was strange. I was starting to feel really bad. I felt somehow that I was responsible for all the misery. That I was guilty of something. I kept looking at the road and said nothing of this to Fatima. The traffic was backed up and we came to a halt just before Passeig de Gràcia. There was an accident or something and there were police cars and an ambulance. I’m sorry, I said. I didn’t mean the traffic and Fatima knew. It’s good somebody is, she said. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I said, Helena told me that you got a job in a call centre. She nodded. Because of my French and English. Don’t you want to go back? Fatima shook her head. I could get a job at the university in Tunis. My family want me to marry a man. He has a business. A good Muslim. Honest and decent. But I can’t. I turned the conversation away from the personal. Goats, isn’t it? You’re an expert on the DNA of the goat, aren’t you? I said it with a smile on my face and Fatima laughed. A long deep liberating laugh. Her face lit up and her eyes sparkled with life. Thanks for helping me with the move, she said. I shook my head. The traffic was still gridlocked. I turned on the radio and ran through the channels but there was nothing decent. Radio Flaixbac. RAC1. Los 40 Principales. Boring politics and endless magnetic waves of sport and gossip. I turned on the CD. The soundtrack from La Double Vie de Veronique filled the car. The traffic started to move. Fatima was enchanted by the music. She listened with her eyes closed. It’s beautiful, she said. I know. It’s from a film. About a girl who lives in two places and dies of a broken heart without finishing her song. He’s Polish, the composer. It’s the most beautiful thing, she repeated. I think I am having a poetic moment. She smiled. Can you play that track again? And turn the volume up. I hit the button. I felt all the hairs on my body stand on end. I flushed. Fatima was in ecstasy. When it finished she said, I know the words she sings. It’s from Dante. I used to read it at school when I was a little girl. From his Paradise. There was no irony or hint of reproach in her voice. We were silent for a while again. I asked her about the house she was going to. It’s a room let by a Moroccan woman with two children, she said without enthusiasm. In Sant Roc. You know where it is? Yes, I said. Her husband abandoned her. She has two rooms and needs the money. The children will sleep with her. She shook her head. The waters I now sail have never been crossed before, she murmured, looking out at the street and the people rushing past. The traffic was starting to move faster and I moved up a gear and we drove on down the Diagonal. I tried to think of something to say but nothing came out. I went to say that I hoped one day that the nine muses would show her the Bear Star but bit my lip. I felt ridiculous. And guilty again. I didn’t say anything and kept my eyes on the car directly in front. That’s the way to drive, I always say to myself. Just keep your eyes on the car in front and you’ll never have an accident or lose control of the road. That’s a guarantee I give you. Almost a scientific rule of life it is. The car directly in front, and nothing else.

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About the Author

​John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His long short story, Rainbow, his novel, The Tower, and his two short fiction collections, Everywhere and Homo Sacer, are all McStorytellers publications.